Of Memories Past
by Krissy Mae Anderson
Summary: Luka smokes a cigarette and remembers more about his past than he wanted. Not for the nervous, perhaps...


_"Of Memories Past" by VjeraNadaLjubav_

**Summary:** Luka smokes a cigarette and remembers more about his past than he wanted.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for language and violence.   
**Spoilers: **Gordana episodes, and the Congo Episodes, so far.  
**Disclaimer:** If Luka were mine, he'd get his own show But he's not, alas.  
**Acknowledgements: **Another shoutout to my bud _wizened cynic_. She's a great gal and is my new sidekick. Also, thanks to my toothache, which kept me up all night and made me write. Thank you, damned cavity.**  
Author's note: **This is sort of a random fic. I was up all night and my brain decided to make me write something. It's sorta rambling, and requires a certain knowledge of the universe of my writings. I mention some stuff from my fic , and reference my other stories. I might write another part of this when I have more time

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I must be a masochist, or something...

Today I feel like thinking about my last AMI trip – my fickle brain often picks things to fixate on, and there is no way to dissuade it to stop. So I pull out my Marlboros and light one, breathe the smoke in, blow it out and remember when my plane landed in Sarajevo two years ago.  
  
The fucking plane seemed to have been made the year I was born, and not cleaned or fixed after that. I spent half of the flight clutching the airsickness bag – it did sort of feel like the plane bounced off the ground all the way from Vienna. I guessed that the two men and a woman sitting together in the back of the plane were my fellow program participants, but I ignored them – I was too nauseous to be friendly, and I didn't feel like talking. When we got off the plane, I quickly got stamped through, with the tired-looking woman in the border police uniform only casting a quick look on my obscenely new-looking Croatian passport. While the Americans – or Europeans, whoever they were, tried to find their way out of customs, I almost set an Olympic record in running from the currency exchange booth to the kiosk that sold cigarettes and almost ripped the vendor's hand off when he reached me my pack of Drinas.   
  
I ripped the plastic apart, opened the pack and got out a cigarette, which I promptly lit, probably looking absurdly, almost orgasmically happy for that early hour of the morning. The vendor observed me with a quirked eyebrow and returned to reading a magazine. The Americans appeared in a herd, looking for the AMI person to greet them. I looked around myself, and spotted a bored man leaning on the wall and half-heartedly holding up a sign that crookedly said The Americans spotted him too and trotted towards him. I followed them, almost passing out from strange happiness that came with the cigarette smoke.  
  
The bored guy disengaged himself from the wall and the Americans enquired whether he was the guy they were looking for. He introduced himself as Esad, and clammed up again. I made myself known, and Esad's eyes fixed on my cigarettes, looking a bit more interested. I presented him with one, and introduced myself. Esad lifted an eyebrow and I wondered if something was wrong with me – either my pants ripped or I got something stuck in my hair – who knows. We followed him to the car, and the Americans, who were surprised by our little cigarette exchange and my mysterious entrance, were squeezed into the back seat of a somewhat dilapidated BMW with German plates. I took the front passenger seat, and held a lighter to Esad's cigarette. He started the car, and we were off, heading for Gorazde somewhat above speed limit.  
  
Esad drawled in language, where are you from?  
  
Used to live in Vukovar – but the accent is from Split, in case you are wondering.  
  
You're kidding! he exclaimed. I just got back from there a week ago. You go to the University there?  
  
No, up in Zagreb, actually. You?  
  
I did my time in Split and- A car swerved in front of us, and Esad slammed on the breaks so hard the Americans gasped.   
  
Did your dog fuck your mother, asshole? Esad screamed to the other driver, who perhaps thankfully wasn't listening. We continued on our way, and Esad continued where he left off – even met my wife there.  
  
Small world, I remarked. Listen, I got to introduce myself to Americans.  
  
Go on, we'll talk later, Esad agreed, honking the horn at some other stupid asshole and launching into a muttered tirade that involved mothers of assholes, perverse sexual acts and animals of many kinds.   
  
I turned myself around and looked at the Americans.  
  
I'm Doctor Kovac – from Chicago. Nice to meet you.  
  
Doctor Jensen – Milwaukee. We're practically neighbors, the taller guy said, shaking my hand.  
  
Doctor Anders, I'm from Tampa, the other one remarked, looking somewhat carsick.  
  
The woman smiled and reached her hand to me, smiling. Doctor Bajuk. I'm from Pittsburgh. But please, call me Michelle.  
  
Michelle. I smiled at her then and turned around, wanting to hide my sudden paleness. I think of my Michelle now, and the thoughts of her replace the thoughts of Esad and the Americans. I have not thought about her for a long time – almost ten years, in fact. It is easy to forget people you knew ten years ago, yet I have not really forgotten her – just put her in the back of my mind, saved the thoughts about her for the metaphorical rainy day. I don't have a photograph of her but I can imagine her if I close my eyes – deep sad brown eyes behind thick glasses, the chocolate brown sweater almost the same color as her skin and the little braid in her hair that had some colorful beads pleated into it. When we went out for coffee, she usually faded into the grayness of Baltimore and looked just like the all the African and African-American women whereas I always stuck out – six foot something white guys always tend to, especially if they look like an extra for The Night of the Living Dead.  
  
Michelle met a very different Luka eleven years ago. I was in transition between my old and new self back then, having moved to another land after spending all my life in one country, and it hurt to be so different. I longed to smoke in non-smoking spaces, the liquor store clerks asked me for ID, the food tasted like shit and everything was so goddamned cold and gray. To say that I was experiencing culture shock was an understatement. I didn't know how to be politically correct – I was either too polite or too impolite to women and I always forgot about the Americans' personal space, and after a while I gave up on touching people at all, because they would immediately think I was either sexually harassing (if they were female) or coming on to them (if they were male.) If I closed my eyes, I could remember hands touching me – my wife's soft hand caressing my face or the sticky hands of my children after they had eaten dessert sliding into mine, or my friends' hands on my shoulders as we squeezed unto tiny couches in tiny living rooms and sang songs of our small country. Whenever someone shook my hand I was overjoyed – I looked forward to those handshakes like other people look forward to holidays.  
  
If I try really hard, I can remember myself that year. I was a bit scary to look at – I looked nothing like the photographs taken only two years ago, and it hurt me to see the face that looked nothing like the face I remembered looking back at me from the mirror. I hated my face, which seemed to have been taken over by my suddenly razor-sharp cheekbones. I hated my body, which was not strong or healthy, not a body that I wanted to be stuck in and strangely foreign, with sharp angles where none used to be and barely healed wounds it should not have received. I hated my mind too, but for a while, I put the hate away, and outside of eating, drinking, sleeping and going to the bathroom, all I did for my first month in United States was study English and American medical terminology, and by some miracle passed all the re-certification exams on the first try. After lots of ass kissing and several dozens of calls to Zagreb University medical school I was able to put together a somewhat sketchy record of my education and employment, which was quite hard to do, since my last place of work was most likely leveled to the ground. By sheer force of will I persuaded the Chief of Staff at Johns Hopkins to allow me to get into the trauma residency, and by some stroke of luck I was allowed not to repeat my first year.   
  
I was about the same age as the other second-year residents, but I was separated from them by many walls – they chatted about their boyfriends and girlfriends and bemoaned medical school loans, while I could not fathom how to become close enough to another human being again to love them and sent as much of my salary as I could spare home – for an American, a second-year resident's salary was not much, but I never had that much money in my life before. They went out for drinks after long shifts, they went over medical journal articles together during lunch breaks and I hid in stairwells to do my readings and spent my free time sitting in my tiny room, repulsed by the way I looked, alternately depressed and anxious, unable to predict the way I would feel the next day. I was frequently mistaken for a patient that year – people don't expect a scrawny pale limping man who seems to have lost his razor and clothes iron to be their doctor.  
  
It is at that point in my life (if one could call it that) when I met Michelle. Our first meeting was unexpected – no one expects to find a friend in a group of people so scared they don't trust themselves, much less a complete stranger. Milan, a Slovenian guy I knew from re-certification course, heard about a support group for medical personnel affected by armed conflict and violence and literally dragged me with him. I resisted, told him a million reasons why I shouldn't, but he pressed on, and on a Friday evening that would be usually spent blindly looking at the screen of my television I found myself being bodily pushed into a room full of people by my friend, who only managed to do that because he was stronger then me. Milan said he would wait for me outside, I rold him to go home, so he squeezed my shoulder and departed, leaving me alone in a room full of strangers.  
  
Most attendees looked the same – gaunt and frightened, drowning in their large wool sweaters as they tried to hide their trembling hands in the too-long sleeves. Men and women of every color were represented equally in a sick equality of war and repression. A passerby who looked into the room would have never guessed that about twenty or so sickly looking people were once doctors, or were doctors again. We introduced ourselves, staring at the others nervously. A man rose and explained the rules of the group, and invited anyone to share their experience or tips on how to deal with problems. A young Chinese doctor began to talk about dealing with anxiety, her hands trembling as she tried to hold on to her glass of water. I subtly moved my chair until I was next to the women – I did not like sitting close to men I didn't know then, but women were safe. Women wouldn't do anything to me. Some of them looked at me nervously, and one or two moved away, but the rest understood, and one even patted me on the shoulder, and I mouthed a thank you to her, somehow feeling like I finally fit in somewhere.  
  
After about an hour passed in the discussion of coping techniques the woman sitting next to me, the one who patted my shoulder, started talking, introducing herself as Michelle, a psychiatrist from Zaire. She turned out to be the one who organized the meeting – and she brought up some issues to talk about the next time. The meeting came to an end, and I got enough courage to engage Michelle in conversation. She was incredibly charming – a warm, friendly person who made anyone who talked to her feel safe. I ended up inviting her to a diner, and we sat there all evening, pouring our life stories to each other although we only had known each other for hours. Michelle's story, although different in many details, was much like mine. She lost a daughter in an explosion and was raped by some soldiers and left for dead, but she somehow survived, just like me not sure for what purpose God had spared her. She climbed out of her depression and got asylum in United States. We only stopped when the diner was closing, and I was overjoyed when I learned that she also worked at JH. We promised each other that we would meet for coffee next Monday, and went our ways. When I got home, I fell asleep happy for the first time in months, knowing that I finally had a friend.  
  
Speaking of friends, I wonder how Gordana is doing. Ante seemed to be okay when I left – I hope that the operation has been successful in the long run. If I'll have some vacation time anytime soon, I am going to visit her and we're going to gather together Stipe and Tomo and just get falling down drunk together. I have missed Gordana terribly, and now I have her back – she is my only female friend and the only one I could speak with about Danijela in ages. When she was at my apartment, after recounting the various exploits of the Four Musketeers, we came to the topic of my unhappiness after lots of beer had been consumed on top of the wine. I was mindful of the fact what would happen if I got too drunk, but I needed this time with her to feel like the old times.  
  
Luka, you're unhappy, she said and finished off her beer. We were sitting together on a chair, and her hand was over my shoulder, and it was so much like the old times I was feeling a bit sad.   
  
No, I'm – I'm just – I'm- I mumbled, knowing that she was right.   
  
What happened to you, Laki? Gordana's beer-free hand was lifted and she ran her fingers through my hair. They don't even know your laugh here. I never knew it took so much away from you. Fuck them She took another beer from the table and popped the tab off. I wish they would have known you like I do, like you were when – when Danka was alive.   
  
I closed my eyes and blinked a couple of tears away. Her hand felt soft, warm and so much like my mother's that I could almost imagine that I was a little child again.  
  
They have no idea what happened to us. I wouldn't wish it on them – it's good that it didn't happen to them, she continued. But they cannot imagine what we all went through. They don't know electricity outages that last for weeks, they don't understand what a food shortage is, they have been blessed with peace. They don't know what a war is. They send their soldiers off into other countries but they never have other soldiers come to theirs. I just wish that somehow they could understand all of this.  
  
I nodded, not sure of what to say, and reached for the next beer. Gordana took another drink from her can and resumed her musings.  
  
I remember when they announced Vukovar was besieged. God, I was cursing at your for your stupid, innocent, unknowing decision to work there until I was blue in the face. And then they told us that you were missing and we were praying to whatever asshole that is in charge of this earth that it meant that you were not dead. She sniffled and removed her hand to swipe at her face. I pulled out a Kleenex from the box that for some reason was next to the beer, and gave it to her. She reached for it and suddenly stopped.  
  
Luka, when did that happen? she asked, and for a moment I could not figure out what she was talking about. Then, I followed her line of sight and saw my left hand holding the Kleenex, with the palm up. I realized what specifically she was referring to when I remembered that I took my watch off earlier and a faint but still visible scar that was usually covered by it was presented in full glory.  
  
That scar was a result of some ingenious feat of strength and insanity on my part. One day, some guard forgot a plastic knife in the bag of food that we got shoved into our room, and while everyone was asleep, I spent the night diligently sawing at my left wrist with that piece of plastic. I did manage to cut through the skin and some small blood vessels, but didn't get much deeper before Drago woke up and confiscated the knife from me and bandaged my wrist with a piece of his shirt. He sat down next to me and made me drink water from the water bottle we had in the room.  
  
What are you thinking? he whispered, sounding angry and commiserating at the same time.  
  
I want to die, I said, meaning exactly that.  
  
You have to hope. You need to not give up. His hand found my uninjured hand and squeezed it, but I didn't squeeze it back.  
  
I want to die, I repeated. I don't want to be here.  
  
he said, thinking of something else encouraging. I looked up and saw Marijan sitting in the corner of the room opposite us, his eyes wide open and unseeing, blood running down his pale face.   
  
They killed Kristo, I mentioned offhand. They killed his brother, his twin. I think they killed him too, inside at least. I want them to kill me too.  
  
Stop saying this nonsense! Drago hissed suddenly and slapped me. I didn't flinch, just continued sitting still, wishing I could drop dead.  
  
You're alive for a reason, Drago whispered, sounding slightly guilty for slapping me. Just believe me, please. Please don't try to hurt yourself again. Promise me.  
  
I said numbly. I promise I won't do it again.  
  
Suddenly the door was pushed open and the lights went on. Those who were sleeping woke up immediately and darted to the walls. Marijan continued staring through the dpace. A man in the brand-new fatigues who seemed to be new and who stunk of alcohol, along with one of the guys who brought us there entered the room, a knife in his hand. His buddy grabbed Marijan, jerked him to his feet, and pushed him out of the room. The new man looked around the room at our gray faces that could not show any fear anymore and stopped his gaze on me. I couldn't help myself and smiled. He smiled as well and grabbed me by the collar of my almost unraveled sweater.  
  
Me and you are going to have some fun tonight, asshole, he said to me. And fun we had that night, fun that made me wish that the plastic knife were sharper   
  
...Well, no need to bring up more bad memories before sleep. I need to have a good night's sleep for tomorrow – much needs to be done, and I'm feeling tired anyway. My cigarette has long burned out, and the sky is getting darker. I'll think about all of this another day, when I will have more time for a repeat visit from my demons and remembering all things that should remain forgotten 

  
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_(to perhaps be continued)_


End file.
